


It's Better if You Don't Talk

by statamater



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, M/M, One Shot, Slash, Smut, almostdark!jim, but it's spock/mccoy so that's a fine line, maybe hate sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statamater/pseuds/statamater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is a grumpy Doctor. Spock has a death wish. Jim is busy saving the world. </p><p>Pretty much business as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Better if You Don't Talk

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what happened. I am generally pretty much K/S all the way all-the-time. And I’m writing some space husbands domestic-type story, right, but then I started thinking about what _Into Darkness_ could mean (for future readers understand we’re at least seven months away from the second movie and they’ve only just announced the title). Anyway, I’m thinking about that in the context of the reboot and trying to imagine what is going to happen if they get all dark and character-depth-plunging, and then I go into this weird almost Mirror-verse place, and then, THEN, I watched the TOS episode Bread and Circuses and boy does that jail scene not go the way I wanted it to go, and so suddenly I’ve got this nu!dark!Trek thing going plus all these overwhelming and _entirely unexpected_ Spock/McCoy feelings, and so this is what happened.
> 
> Really I am so sorry, I still have no idea what I am doing.
> 
> (PS- Warnings for injuries and doctor type stuff, not excessively graphic, but, you know, grumpy doctor in a war on a starship, etc, etc.)

Leonard McCoy is a doctor. More than that, he’s a surgeon, and he’s trained in space psychology, and he’s been married, dammit, so he’s seen carnage. And yet there is something about doctoring up the crew of the _Enterprise_ that gets to him. Maybe it’s because they are all so young- and not just fresh faced and naive, but _unaware_. They had, most of them, been trained in combat at the Starfleet Academy with no expectation of seeing battle. Some of them just wanted to see the universe. Some were drawn by the promise of money and job security- they couldn’t pass up the offer of access to top notch laboratories and medical training. And some were just curious: they wanted to get their hands on warp drives, to breed new strains of bacteria, to perhaps discover, among the stars, some new thing that no one had even imagined was possible - to literally change what it meant to be alive. These are the dreams of children raised in peace. And they are all children still, really, and they are led by Jim Kirk, the youngest Captain in charge of the youngest crew in Starfleet history, and they are right on the front lines of a war that doesn’t exist.

McCoy is starting to realize that in military terms “youngest” actually means “most expendable.”

The Romulan Empire swears they have made no attacks, and yet the soldiers of the _Enterprise_ die. Starfleet intel shows that no one has crossed the neutral zone, and yet the soldiers of the _Enterprise_ die. The Federation has made no formal declaration of war, they have, in fact, classified the _Enterprise_ ’s mission as exploratory, which is just the cruelest irony of all, to send this crew with no real orders except to follow their hopes and dreams of new life and new planets and then all the soldiers of the _Enterprise_ do is _die_.

When they come back to him as corpses so he can make them pretty again before they are buried, as he pinches shut phaser burns, as he fixes sucking punctures and rearranges faces into a semblance of what they once were, McCoy comes to believe that his captain, his friend, never shared their dreams of peace. James Kirk was born in battle, and now the universe wars, and his crew dies for it.

Or worse, McCoy thinks, as he knits bone and regenerates skin. Sometimes they live. Sometimes they go on breathing and walking and serving, and all that has died is their hope of peace and their faith in a better world. They come to trust their captain, to love their captain, even, and he replaces all the lost dreams, and McCoy thinks that even though he also loves Jim, and he will follow Jim to the edge of known space and beyond, the crew of the _Enterprise_ has gotten the rawest deal in history. 

And that’s coming from a guy who lost an entire planet in a divorce.

* * *

They are six months into the war that is not a war when Spock comes into medbay the first time. All the bones in his left hand are broken. McCoy sets them - most of the breaks are clean, but there are a lot of them. So many that he is not sure if Spock chose not to heal this injury on his own or could not. He does not ask.

It is two months before Spock comes in again. He has a gash across his face, running from underneath one pointed ear down to the top edge of his lip. His cheek is hopelessly marred, oozing, dark green, partially clotted. McCoy frowns. He can’t promise this won’t scar, but he’s going to have to clean it before he uses the regenerator or the infection will take half of Spock’s face. He holds up a disinfectant to ask permission, and Spock turns his cheek in acceptance. 

It is scarcely two weeks later when Spock is carried in by a security team. His leg is twisted at an impossible angle. McCoy runs the scan- broken, fractured, really, and poorly set, and then, goddammit- “Did you walk on this leg?” he asks.

“It was functional,” says Spock.

“Functional my ass, it was _in pieces_ ,” says McCoy. “And don’t tell me it was fixed, I don’t know what kind of second rate medic kit they were using on you down there, but this bone wasn’t set anywhere near properly.”

“Had to…get… Captain,” says Spock, his jaw clenched as McCoy pokes and prods. 

McCoy frowns. He wants to yell at Spock, really he wants to cuff him upside the head, but Spock is clearly already in a great deal of pain, and McCoy is not sure Spock is capable of feeling guilt over something like this. This leg is going to have to be rebroken and then reset, and Vulcan bones are hard. He looks around the room. They don’t have any pain dampeners that are tuned high enough for Vulcan physiology, and while he’s been occupied with the aftermath of Spock’s idiotic savior complex the medbay has gone and filled up with broken crewmen. All of the surgery biobeds are occupied with men who are ripped open and bleeding, and it’s going to be hours before they’ll have access to what they need, and by then… He exhales sharply, then opens a drawer and pulls out a bottle of whisky and a length of wooden stick. He offers them to Spock. Spock waves off the whisky, but he takes the stick. With a look at McCoy he puts it between his teeth, then nods. McCoy opens a second drawer. 

Spock bites the stick in half, but he never makes a sound.

* * *

They are almost a year into the war that is not a war and most of the time McCoy is the first stop Spock makes after a mission. McCoy knows Spock’s unflattering opinion of McCoy’s medical expertise cannot have changed. McCoy also knows Vulcan physiology, and what he doesn’t know he looks up, and he knows Spock shouldn’t be showing half of the wear and tear on his body that he is showing. Spock is obviously throwing himself into danger, too exhausted to fix himself, and, McCoy is beginning to suspect, cares so little about his own body now that he’s willing to let McCoy shake his rattles and chant his voodoo. McCoy sees this and he knows it and he thinks it’s none of his damn business if Spock is unravelling so he doesn’t say a word.

Until he does.

“You’re liable to kill yourself, acting like this.”

Spock is silent. McCoy taps his shoulder, indicating he should turn. Spock does, presenting a fresh side of burns. McCoy presses the dermal regenerator to the blistered skin.

“What did you do, jump in front of the thing?” Spock is silent. McCoy presses the regenerator harder. “Well?”

“Doctor, I would appreciate it if you restricted your inquiries to the medically necessary.”

“Oh, it’s necessary all right. You know human doctors don’t just care for the body. We check on the head, on the heart, on the soul.” McCoy lifts his eyes to Spock’s face. Spock is looking at him, impassive. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Are we done here?” says Spock.

“Yes,” says McCoy. He’s not done, but the few remaining burns are unlikely to scar, and he finds he can’t stand to look at Spock any longer. “Get on, then.”

Spock leaves.

* * *

There is a mission on a planet where the local humanoids have been armed with weapons far beyond their technological capabilities. McCoy didn’t do any command training, and of course he’d never speak out of turn, but honestly he doesn’t understand how this sort of thing can keep happening and yet still it is a surprise every time. All of the crew that went down to the surface have suffered severe radiation exposure. They are beamed up and rushed directly to his wing. McCoy dispenses rapid detox hypos and triages out the ones who aren’t going to make it. People are vomiting everywhere. He’s three-quarters of the way through the wreckage of wounded when he realizes Spock isn’t there. He puts Chapel in charge and heads down to the officer’s quarters. He considers knocking, but then he just uses his emergency override and walks in, because he’s a doctor and he doesn’t give a fuck about privacy when lives are at stake. He’s pretty sure that was part of the Hippocratic Oath. 

Spock is sitting at his console with his head in his hands. His color is all wrong.

“What the high hell is this, Spock?” says McCoy. “You get exposed to a nuclear blast and suddenly want some alone time?”

“I am much stronger than humans,” says Spock, but he does not lift his head. Perhaps he cannot.

“Spock, you green-blooded _idiot_ , you’re not immortal. You’ve obviously gone far beyond your own skill to heal, and you’re getting to be beyond mine.”

“I regret putting any extra burden on you, Doctor,” says Spock. “I know your… skills are already stretched to their limit. I did not want to bother you if nothing could be done.” Spock’s tone is dismissive, but he turns his face to McCoy and opens one eye and the shock of his pain shakes McCoy somewhere near base of his spine. He’s about to reach for his scanner when Spock’s eyes roll up into his head and he falls from the chair. McCoy slams the comm button and screams.

* * *

They get Spock back into medbay, he’s stabilized, but he’s unconscious. McCoy can’t tell if it’s a coma or a Vulcan healing trance, and not for the first time he wishes they had someone who knew something about Vulcan physiology that didn’t come from the rumor mill or a heavily censored report from the New Vulcan embassy. He looks at the scanner output and he sees the line for mental activity wiggling around. Spock’s brain hasn’t been fried, so thank God for small miracles. He has no idea if the human radiation meds will help, but he can’t bring himself not to try. 

Jim comes in just as McCoy is pushing the last hypo. 

“Will he be alright?” Jim asks.

“In time,” says McCoy. “What in God’s name did you do to him, Jim?”

Jim’s face hardens. “It was a trap. Damn Romulans - I know it’s them, but the admiralty just won’t listen. They’ve finally broken our code. We thought we were answering a distress call.” He points at Spock with his chin. “He went in to help, and then the whole thing blew to high hell. Dirty bomb.”

“You sent him in blind? _Alone_?”

“It’s his job,” Jim cocks his head.  “I just need you to fix him, Bones.”

McCoy thinks what Jim needs right now is a switch to the backside. “Don’t you ‘Bones’ me. You’ve damn near killed him this time, and it’s-“

“Not now, McCoy,” says Jim, and turns away. 

“When, Jim?”

Jim presses his lips together and heads to the door.

“Just get him up again soon, will you?”

And he walks out.

McCoy turns to the prone figure in the bed. “You hear that, Spock? That’s our loving Captain.”

There is a slight jump on the scan. McCoy scoffs.

“I knew you were in there,” he says. He presses his hand to Spock’s arm, briefly. It is hot even through the cloth. “You’re not too bad when you can’t talk back.” 

He tells Chapel to page him immediately if there is any change, and he goes back to his room. This is one of those days that he would prefer no one saw him drinking.

* * *

It takes Spock seventeen hours to regain consciousness. When McCoy answers the emergency page he sees the green tinges on his cheeks and realizes Chapel probably had to slap him. McCoy gestures for Spock to remain still, then pulls a chair up next to the bed. Spock lies staring up at the ceiling, and folds his hands under his chin.

“He’s going to kill you, you know,” says McCoy. 

Spock inhales, then exhales slowly. He closes his eyes.

“I’m trying to talk to you here,” says McCoy.

Spock dips his head, a half-hearted nod. 

“One of these days our captain is going to tell you to go on a mission and you won’t return. That’s the power he has. Are you prepared for that day?”

Spock is silent. Then he nods again.

“Bullshit,” says McCoy.

“It is my job, Doctor,” says Spock.

“It’s your job to be First Officer,” says McCoy. “It’s your job to run the bridge when Jim’s not on board. It’s your job to report changes in Jim’s mental capacity back to Starfleet. It’s not your job to run headlong into every firefight between here and the Orion nebula.”

Spock’s mouth is set in a lipless line. “I serve the Captain, the Federation, and the principles of Surak,” he says.

“Even if they all ask you to die?” says McCoy

“Even then, Doctor.”

“It’s going to happen, Spock, don’t you understand?” McCoy grips the side of the bed so hard he can feel his bones creak. “He’ll keep sending you in until you don’t come out.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, but the movement is slow, sluggish, robbed of its usual impish cheek. “Is this not his job?”

“The day will come when he has to choose between your life and the war, and Jesus Christ, Spock, _he’s going to choose the war_.”

Spock’s eyebrow lowers. He doesn’t answer.

“Don’t you have the sense to be afraid?” McCoy’s throat is tight.

“I do not fear death,” says Spock, but his voice is not steady.

“Not death, you fool,” says McCoy, and he grabs Spock by the shoulders and shakes him. “ _Him.”_

Spock opens his eyes and looks at McCoy, and McCoy shivers right down to his boots. “Holy fucking hell,” says McCoy. Spock closes his eyes and turns his head away. “Is that why you want to die?” says McCoy. “Better to die a hero than to admit what is really driving you? Open your eyes, dammit, and _look at me._ ”  McCoy is suddenly envious that Chapel was the one who got to smack him out of his trance. He pulls Spock up by the shoulders, resists the urge to bang his head onto the wall.  “Is that your answer? Is that what you learned from a lifetime on Vulcan? I feel something I cannot control and so my life no longer matters? Is that _logical_?” At the last word, Spock opens his eyes again. McCoy’s face is so close to Spock’s that he can feel hot breath on his cheeks, across his lips. He lowers his voice to a grating whisper. “Fuck the sacred ways of Vulcan. Is that what your mother would have wanted? For you to just let yourself _die_ rather than admit that you have no idea what to do with a genuine human emotion?”

And Spock leans forward and kisses him.

McCoy startles. He… that _Vulcan asshole,_ he cannot believe this, this is no way to, but he can’t argue, because Spock’s tongue is in his mouth, and really, isn’t that the point. McCoy is so angry, he pushes back with his own tongue, fighting for control, he wasn’t done, he’s got things he needs to say right the fuck _now_. He shoves himself against Spock’s shoulders but Spock is suddenly rigid as stone, immobile, and his hands are like iron bands digging wickedly into McCoy’s back. McCoy is bigger - wider across the chest and slightly taller, he knows this, but Spock is _so strong_ , even now, when by all rights he should be half dead, so McCoy relaxes and lets go because this would all go much better without broken bones, thank you. Spock is breathing into his mouth, hard and hot, then is up out of the bed and pushing McCoy back into the chair, and biting his lip, sharp, and McCoy tastes blood. There is a ripping sound, that’s Spock pulling all the sensors off his body, no, that’s McCoy’s shirt and his uniform pants, and then they are out of the chair and McCoy is pressed between the cold tile and unbearably hot skin. The back of his head cracks against the floor. Spock reaches for it, but McCoy slaps his hand away and flips Spock over onto his back. Spock grabs McCoy’s wrists and holds them out, McCoy held fast in the air, straddling Spock’s hips, and Spock tries to push forward again to catch McCoy’s mouth with his own. McCoy pulls back out of reach and Spock growls.

“What in God's name do you think you're doing?” says McCoy.

 _“Feeling,”_ says Spock, and he lunges forward, grabbing McCoy under his thighs and lifting him straight up and onto the bed, then pushing himself down so he is between McCoy’s legs. Spock has somehow lost what little clothing he had, McCoy isn’t actually sure he was wearing any under the blankets, and McCoy is in nothing but his underwear, and he has about two seconds to pray no one decides to come in right now before Spock orders the computer to lock the doors. He thrusts his hips forward and McCoy feels the hot hard length of him, gasps, and then Spock is on his mouth again, lips open, teeth bared, this isn’t kissing- McCoy feels like he is being _eaten._

_Fuck this._

He arches his back, pressing his hips up and then wriggling so he can get his boxers off. Spock barely backs off, grudgingly, he knows this requires full nudity, then he strokes his hand up the length of McCoy’s dick, rubbing one thumb across the slit. McCoy bites Spock’s neck and feels capillaries break. There will be a bruise, he can see it forming already, dark and green. McCoy isn’t going to fix it, he decides, and the thought of Spock going back to the bridge with McCoy’s teethmarks showing at the ring of his collar makes him dizzy. Spock’s breath hitches, and McCoy has time to think, oh, God, right, telepathy, _you fucking bastard_ before he is flipped over with his face buried on the bed and his feet on the floor and his heart jumps to his throat because Spock is going to fuck him dry. 

“Wait- wait-“ he gasps, and reaches for the drawer across the bed and it is just beyond his grasp. Spock pushes two spit-slicked fingers into him all at once, and it burns, and McCoy thinks, this is a terrible idea, and then oh Jesus, fuck, that’s good, and then, maybe this is the part of being at war that no one really talks about, when the whole thing just gets so far into your brain that the desire to die and the desire to live are indistinguishable. He pushes back onto Spock’s fingers and suddenly his cock is there, hard and slick, between McCoy’s thighs. The head of Spock’s dick is pushing up against the back of McCoy’s balls, and it’s wet with sweat and precome and maybe just enough spit. McCoy pushes back again, feels Spock’s dick slide against him again, and then there are three fingers inside of him and McCoy suddenly doesn’t care anymore, wants Spock to be done with this pussyfooting around and just _fuck him already._  

And he does- shallow at first because McCoy’s body is still resisting even though McCoy’s brain has lost all sense of self-preservation. But Spock fucks him right through it, fucks him wide open and then some, and McCoy arches up back into him, full of Spock but he still feels like he can’t reach him, and Spock leans over again and wraps one arm across McCoy’s chest, pulling them together, so his entire body is pushing McCoy down into the bed, then one hand is on McCoy’s stomach and the other is pressing two fingers into McCoy’s mouth as Spock thrusts into him like a hammer. McCoy is pretty much already gone when Spock leans over and licks his ear. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Spock rasps.

“Jesus, yes,” says McCoy, unintelligible around Spock’s hand, he is almost choking, and Spock grabs his cock and strokes him hard, once, and he bites down on Spock’s fingers as he comes in long stripes across the bed. Spock lets him go and he drops down right into his own mess, and that shouldn’t be hot, but god, _it is,_ and he closes his eyes as Spock presses his hands into the flesh of McCoy’s ass, bracing himself up as starts pounding into McCoy again, and his cock is impossibly hard. “God, it’s like being fucked with a steel rod,” says McCoy. “Come, you bastard.” And Spock pulls out and comes all over McCoy’s back, roping up to his hairline, and then falls into the bed beside him.  

They lie there for a while, silently. 

“Do you think you can manage a shower by yourself?” says McCoy. “Because I don’t think I can explain this to the nurse, and I sure as fuck don’t want to give you a sponge bath.”

Spock stands, lifts McCoy onto one shoulder like a sack of flour, and carries him to the bathroom. 

“I really fucking hate you sometimes, you know that, right?” says McCoy as Spock drops him on the floor of the shower, then climbs in beside him. Spock raises one eyebrow in answer. Then, before McCoy can stand, Spock turns the knob and the spray comes on full blast. McCoy’s mouth is full of water, and he smiles.


End file.
